


Something Wicked

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Conditioning, Dark, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Seduction, Spanking, Submission, probably more like non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turner stiffened when he heard Xander approach him, his hands shaking as he tried to unlock his door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> This is story is essentially original characters with familiar faces plastered on. I just wanted to write porn. This is a theme.

It started randomly enough: a chanced glance down the hallway, the light sparkling as it highlighted sharp cheekbones that led the eye directly to a soft, petal-pink mouth. That was really all it took for Xander to understand just what he wanted—and that he could _have_ it. He remained standing there, mind racing, as those full lips were obscured by shadow, widened blue eyes meeting his for a split second.

And then vanishing.

Xander grinned as the door was firmly shut, the lock turned almost immediately after. It wasn't quite the petulant slamming of the door a child would indulge in, but it was close. A firm reminder that no, he _wasn't_ a sullen, frightened ten year old who had limited means of protecting himself. Too bad that such antics only confirmed how inexperienced the man in question was.

Well, too bad for him. For Xander, it was just right.

Dropping his keys onto the table, Xander surveyed his apartment. Messy without being actually dirty, he followed a decreasing trail of clothes and debris to stand in front of the door at the end of his short hallway. There were advantages to living in the basement of a posh building such as this. He didn't get the view—but he got extra space. The room was large, bare except for thick, plush carpeting and a box full of items that hadn't been used for some time. 

Xander had thought when he first moved in a year ago that he'd find someone immediately. He always had in the past. City to city, he'd found what he wanted after a few days of carefully looking around, trying to spot that familiarly down-turned head, the flutter of eyelashes at exactly the wrong moment. Each time, he'd taken what he wished until there was nothing left. Then he switched cities again, his contractor job perfect for whenever he wanted a change in venue.

He'd thought New York would be the easiest of all cities to troll through. Yet it was only now, a year later, that he finally noticed his sole next-door neighbor.

Shame on him. He was practically losing his touch!

Closing the door to the room, Xander went to his own bedroom and stretched out. He was hungry and had a few things to take care of that night, but it could wait. Picking up the phone, he waited for the other side to connect. "Willow," the husky voice said.

"Red," Xander greeted with a smile she'd hear.

"Xander! There you are. I thought you'd disappeared for ever! Where are you at now?" The smooth, dusky voice disappeared into a familiar excited squeaking as Willow lost the persona in favor of affection. "Never mind, I'll find that out when you give me your new address. How long has it been, a year? That's a long time for you, Xand!"

Too long, something that had weighed less than expected on Xander's mind. He'd been busy with work, and his time was too precious to waste on fools and naive children. Besides, no one had looked at all interesting. "Yeah, well, work. You know how it is."

"Uh huh." The excitement faded, leaving the kind of intuition that made her so good at her job, and a frequent cause for Xander's squirming. "And of course that has nothing to do with Andrew, does it? Speaking of, last I heard he's doing fine. Anya's treating him well."

Xander immediately quelled the relief that Anya wasn't indulging her man-hating tendencies. Andrew was sweet enough to just—and he wasn't supposed to be thinking about Andrew, was he? Damn Willow. '"No, it has nothing to do with Andrew," he said, scowling, tone indicating that this subject was _not_ welcome. "Anyway. I'll need the start up kit, please."

Returning to the pleased little girl that always came as a shock given just what she did, Willow giggled into the phone. "Sure. Lemme just get your new information and we'll get this right out. You'll want the standard plus your usual extras, right? We've raised prices a little, but your discount still stands." Keys clicked as Willow spoke, her voice growing distracted as she manipulated her computer to do arcane things. "And there we go. So? Details!"

"No details, Wills," Xander said as he dug out his wallet and his brand new credit card number, not yet memorized. "I don't even know his name."

* * * *

There were ways to go about it. Sometimes the slow introduction worked best, a drawn-out friendship that seduced better than any of the tricks or lines Xander had picked up. Xander preferred that method, but like any true hunter, he knew who really set the tone. The hunt was designed to catch the specific target, not whatever happened to wander into its grasp. Xander had done that before, too, but it wasn't what he wanted now. He discarded that method with a small sigh of regret—he really did hate being so crass up front ... but he'd manage. Each of Xander's perfected methods had their own rewards, after all.

As he planned, Xander began doing his research. William Turner, recently orphaned by his wealthy British parents—a car accident in London. Turner had been spared the grisly scene by nature of attending Columbia University. The accident had produced a marked change in the young man, according to what tentative questions Xander asked. Always withdrawn and shy, William had become practically a ghost during his senior year. Several promising internships with financial institutions vanished when Turner did not show for interviews, or acted distracted and uninterested in the ones he did manage to attend. The secretary who Xander quizzed the most had shaken her head mournfully as she described the way Turner lost all of his friends, his prospects and his drive. "He's such a sad boy," she'd told Xander.

With a large trust-fund made significantly larger by his parents unfortunate demise, Turner had graduated without a job or any interest in finding one. His parents had owned an apartment in their current building, but according to the landlord, Turner had requested that the holding be transferred to one of the two empty basement apartments. Garcia's eyes still held dollar signs as he explained just how much more money he made, renting out the original apartment while Turner took the smaller and therefore cheaper basement apartment without asking for a refund.

Afterwards, Turner had simply drifted. He lived frugally, occasionally volunteering his financial know-how to charitable organizations. He had no friends, no hobbies as far as anyone knew. He shopped at the small grocery store down the block—the cashier there was thoroughly smitten with him, to Xander's amusement—and everything else was mail-ordered. Casually looking through his garbage confirmed that Turner was a man who spent a great deal of time doing almost nothing worthwhile, constantly battling depression and a listlessness that never ventured far enough to entertain thoughts of genuine suicide. Yet.

Physically, Turner was a small man. In stature, he looked almost underdeveloped, lacking a man's deep chest or broad shoulders—although his cheekbones and jaw-line were certainly masculine enough—and was often mistaken for a boy of barely sixteen years of age, instead of twenty three. His quiet, evasive attitude did not do him any favors, either. He didn't look effeminate, the way some men of Xander's acquaintance had, but it was close. He never bore any stubble that Xander could see, his body muscled without being bulky, and he frequently walked with his shoulders slumped, staring at the world from under lowered eyelashes. Add to that brilliant blue eyes, white-blond hair that did not look dyed, despite the dark eyebrows and lashes, cheekbones to die for and that luscious petal mouth...

He was perfect. _Truly_ perfect.

* * * *

As he waited for his kit to arrive, busy with work and research, Xander still managed to take the first necessary steps. The very first one was a simple introduction: making sure to say hi, what his name was, when they both arrived home together—something Xander meticulously planned for. He would turn up when Turner went shopping, often getting things for him: things on tall shelves that the short, slender man would have struggled to reach, or heavier items. Once, when Turner attempted to purchase alcohol, Xander cut the clerk's doubts off by buying the booze _for_ Turner. That had been interesting, particularly after Turner grabbed his bottle of vodka and fled at a dead run back to his apartment. 

It was always good to find those who shared the same interests, after all, and the predatory grin the clerk had given him was as clear as a neon sign.

"New, is he?" the clerk asked. There was a lascivious glint in his eyes as he followed Turner's retreating form. "Good luck. He's had half a dozen men _and_ women flirt with him in the store—never understands until they get grabby. Then he blushes pretty and runs."

Xander spent a moment picturing the burly, overweight clerk next to Turner. The dark, heavy manliness next to skin that would look pure white in comparison and so small and delicate ...

He leveled a glare. "Thanks for the tip," he said, each word bitten off cleanly. The clerk's eyes widened, and then narrowed. Xander smiled, maintaining his cold stare, and picked up his own purchases. "Friendly, you understand."

Xander had a reputation for not sharing. Not unless it was on his terms, anyway.

Almost, Xander let himself fall into the more coaxing method. It would be so easy to set himself up as Turner's friend first—but that would provide Xander with a love-sick puppy. _Only_ a love-sick puppy, one that would eventually get over the new emotions and assert a personality that wasn't necessarily strong, but certainly wasn't as weak as Turner's acquaintances believed. Xander wasn't interested in infatuation. He wanted much more.

Two months to the day of discovering Turner, Xander hurried down the stairs to his apartment. Turner was balancing three bags awkwardly in his arms, attempting to unlock his door with hands full of brown bags—he never used the kind with handles, an idiosyncracy Xander didn't understand but certainly appreciated. Approaching silently, Xander pressed his hips up against Turner's ass as he reached around to pluck the keys out of Turner's fumbling fingers. "You're helpless," he said bluntly and unlocked the door. "You can't even hold three bags and unlock a door? Really, Turner. You need a keeper."

Dropping the keys into the nearest back, Xander dropped his arm and ran a palm over Turner's cock before disappearing.

It took Turner five minutes to unfreeze himself, and then he hurried into his apartment as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. Xander watched from a niche near the door to his own apartment, hidden from Turner's sight. He took into account the flush that looked so red on pink-white skin, and the pants that had odd shadows highlighting their khaki folds—and wondered whether it was his tone or his actions that made Turner hard.

When the door actually slammed, a secondary thump meaning the bags had been dropped—or possibly Turner himself, given how loud it was—Xander grinned. A very good start indeed.

It continued like that for a week. Xander would do helpful things, usually without being asked for assistance, explaining just how useless and pathetic Turner was at the same time. His tone was often angry, annoyed at having to, as Turner saw it, go out of his way. His insults remained clean, though Xander was careful not to allow others to hear—anyone not so off-balance as Turner was would clearly recognize his actions for harassment. The combination had Turner becoming increasingly jumpy, glancing over his shoulder nervously as Xander had a tendency to pop out of no where. It also had him increasingly aroused, something Xander encouraged by always touching Turner sexually as he ‘helped'. Turner's cock and ass were fair game for Xander's wandering hands. His nipples were pinched, his cheek slapped lightly when on the fourth day, Turner actually dropped his groceries on Xander toe.

It was beautiful, really. Xander had to work at not jacking himself off several times a day, and more so as he began preparing the kit to his specifications. Willow was always good to long time customers like Xander and would have done this for him, but Xander enjoyed mixing the liquids, watching his own chemistry experiment come to life.

On Friday, Xander arranged with his bosses to come and go as he pleased for the next few weeks and then took off early. Turner usually volunteered at the children's shelter on Fridays and always came home tense and nervous—the children there, often larger and more developed than he was, frightened him. They recognized exactly what Xander had and loved to make him start nervously. Two black kids were the worst offenders and they'd been growing more reckless lately. It made for a perfect opening.

Turner stiffened when he heard Xander approach him, his hands shaking as he tried to unlock his door. Xander, cat-quick and amused, cupped a hand over Turner's crotch to shove him away from the door, easily taking the keys at the same time. Turner trembled as he pressed himself against the wall, eyes very wide as they stared up at Xander. "I—"

"You," Xander interrupted, "are a stupid asshole. That's what they call you down there, right? The pretty white boy that jumps whenever doors are shut too loud. The scaredy-cat. The bitch. Don't they?"

Turner's hands clenched into fists, but it wasn't rage that made him go rigid. "They're just ... stupid kids," he said.

Pocketing Turner's keys, Xander smiled almost benevolently at him. He walked into Turner's personal space, grinding his hips against Turner's—thanks to Willow, his cock was soft and would remain so—and forcibly lifted the down-turned head. "True," he said. "But they aren't _wrong_ , are they? Say it."

"What? I'm not—you're—I'll call the police—"

Xander let Turner babble for a moment—then got bored. Sighing loudly enough that Turner would hear it, he dropped one arm from its position by Turner's head and pinched his earlobe. _Hard_. It was a completely unexpected move and Turner almost shrieked in reaction. Now, a different person would've ripped himself away from Xander, or shoved. Turner just babbled even more frantically, clawing at Xander's wrist. It was completely ineffectual, and exactly what Xander had expected him to do. Lovely. 

Only when those big blue eyes welled with surprised tears did Xander let go. "Say it," he repeated. "Tell me that they're right." Turner wasn't nearly as weak as his appearance indicated, but Xander was a big, powerful man and Turner's struggles were that of a kitten's, to him. Grabbing the flailing arms, Xander took both of Turner's wrists in one hand, the other stroking up and down his jaw line.

Trembling but not yet crying, Turner mutely shook his head. That, too, was expected so Xander squeezed the wrists he held. Turner cried out again, and said, "Yes! Th-they're right."

"They are. They're right when they call you a stupid little boy."

"No, I—" Another pinch and the first tear fell. "I'm a s-stupid little b-boy."

Xander smiled just the tiniest amount. "A bitch."

Turner's eyes were on the floor now. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, fear making it smell metallic. He was shaking, still occasionally trying to struggle—and his cock was so hard that Xander had _no_ idea why no one had snatched him up before this. "A bitch," he whispered.

"Good girl. Get into my apartment."

This was the first test, and predictably, Turner's head flew up. "I'm not—I won't!" It was the most forceful declaration he'd made in as long as Xander had observed him and the dilated eyes told Xander it was born totally of adrenaline. "I'm not a girl, and I'm calling the cops! You—you can't do this!"

Xander leaned so close that their noses touched. He rested his fingers on the front and back of Turner's earlobe but did not press down—meanwhile, he squeezed those wrists hard enough to feel the bones rasp together. "Yes," he hissed, "I can. You're a bitch, William, you _said_ it. Can a bitch take care of themselves, huh? You can't even open your own door most of the time, pretty boy. So you will get into my apartment right _NOW!_ "

Turner squeaked, shrinking down the wall to get away from Xander—and when released, scurried into the apartment as told.

Xander smiled wolfishly as Turner stumbled while rounding the doorframe, glad that the boy couldn't see him—it'd give the game away, and Xander didn't want that. Eventually, perhaps. Acceptance was delicious in its own unique ways—but not yet. Keeping his pace steady as he walked into his apartment, pointing towards his sofa when Turner flashed huge, scared eyes at him, Xander felt—not for the first time—like Pepe le Pew. It was his cartoon upbringing coming out, but the tone was right. Turner could scramble and fight all he wanted, but Xander would always be right behind him. 

Pretty soon, Turner would _want_ that.

Heading towards the kitchen, Xander poured two glasses of water. Willow's kit sat tauntingly on the counter beside him, but Xander considered. He _could_ wait. Turner really was perfect, so responsive after only a week of teasing that Xander probably didn't need his insurance policy.

But Xander hadn't reached his level of skill and exerpience by leaving much to chance. Extracting a small red pill, Xander swallowed it dry and then picked up a small phial of a murky, iridescent liquid. It looked so distinctive like that. A foggy sort of blue. No one would ever guess that water—and only water, thanks to Willow's genius—turned it colorless, ordorless, and tasteless. Xander poured half the phial into each glasses and then went back to the living room.

His disappearance was calculated. He wanted Turner to start building back up his defenses, wanted him to try and regain his own footing—just so Xander could prove that poor little Turner had neither.

Popping to his feet when Xander appeared, Turner rubbed his faintly red wrists and looked around. "This is a nice place," he said. His accent had faded after four years in America, but nervousness brought it back. He sounded the proper little school boy. "You work in construction, yes? It certainly must pay well."

A retreat to more formal English, as well. Fascinating. Xander didn't want to talk about his interior designing taste—which was excellent, thank you—and handed over the glass. "Sit down," he ordered. When Turner hesitated, Xander glared at him. That did the trick. "Have a drink. Just water, bottled. I can show you the bottle, if you like."

An intelligent person wouldn't fall for that, but frightened people aren't intelligent. Turner gave him a nervous smile in thanks, drinking two large swallows before he froze. His eyes widened just a touch as he finally realized his mistake. There were two ways to go, now. Xander could press his advantage—or he could allow Turner to believe he was wiggling away.

Sitting down uncomfortably close to the boy, Xander chose the latter. "You really are a stupid little girl, aren't you?" he said. "Here, I'll switch the glasses. Will that reassure you?"

Turner's mouth worked—god, so pink, and wet from the tainted water and Xander _wanted_ it—before he finally managed a smile. "Yes. All right. I ... forgive me."

Xander smiled, though Turner clearly saw the shark's teeth. Such a pretty thing Turner was. Already assuming blame, and conveniently forgetting about the insults. The next time there was a New York meeting, several people were going to be _very_ upset that a new comer like Xander had snatched him up. He sighed and switched the glasses, pointedly taking a large swallow. When Turner colored, Xander allowed his hand to drop on Turner's thigh. He didn't massage, or run his fingers up the inseam of ratty jeans—he just rested it there, heavily.

"Um. Is ... is there a reason you i-invited me here?" The glass was nearly empty now, fingerprints translucent smudges on the glass. "If not, I'd really like to—"

Very casually, Xander released Turner's leg—and lightly back-handed him across the mouth. It wasn't painful, just a rasp of skin across soft wet lips, making them turn a little redder. Turner cried out when he was smacked, jerking so that some of the water spilled across his wrist. Xander took all this in, then calmly said: "Shut up."

Stunned, Turner lifted his free hand to touch his mouth. It wouldn't even swell, but the surprise would be more lingering than the pain. "You—"

Xander hit him again, a tiny fraction harder. "I said _shut up_ ".

The hint of confidence evaporated, leaving nothing but a trembling, terrified boy. Panting, almost whimpering with every breath, Turner nodded. He tried to shrink away from Xander, but the return of a hand on his thigh froze him in place. Licking his lips, he nodded once.

Normally, it took _days_ to get a boy in this position.

Leaning back a little, Xander made it very obvious as he surveyed the shivering boy on his sofa. "Good girl. That's much better, isn't it?" Xander raised an eyebrow, pleased when Turner immediately started nodding. He began a light back and forth motion on Turner's thigh, not quite petting, not quite massaging. "Good girl. See, I've got a problem. And since I've been helping you out for the past few months, I thought maybe you could help me."

Turner's eyes darted around the room. "O-okay?" he stuttered.

Xander nodded as if he expected no less—he didn't. "Good girl. I knew you'd be the helpful kind of bitch." Turner's eyes flickered at the word but he said nothing. The drug was fully in his system now, adrenaline making his blood run hot, spreading it around faster than normal. "Do you want to help me?"

Nodding slowly, Turner jumped half out of his skin when Xander transferred his hold to the back of Turner's neck. "Y-yeah."

"I knew you'd be such a good girl," Xander told him, starting to massage the tiniest amount. "You're going to be very good at helping me, too. I just know it." Slowly, Turner started relaxing into the touch and the praise, the drug encouraging him even more. "You're so pretty. I've always thought that about you, baby. You're smart, too, I know about the volunteer work you do, helping out with kids. That's so sweet of you. And you're going to help me. Aren't you, baby?"

Eyes now half-closed, Turner nodded.

"See? A good girl." Slowly, Xander lifted Turner's right hand and placed it over his cock. The drugs he'd consumed were starting to wear off and he was only just beginning to harden. "Feel that, baby? See, what I need is a good cocksucker like you to get me off. It's been months since I've had anything and living next to a pretty bitch like you is driving me crazy. Since you're the problem... "

Xander knew that Turner wanted to go rigid, wanted to pull away, or even shake his head frantically. The drug, Xander's own combination of a sedative and Willow's special starter, limited him to only widening his eyes. His jaw dropped, staring at the growing bulge beneath the hand he hadn't yet moved. "I'm not—I don't—you're—"

"Oh, come on," Xander told him. "It's cause of you, girl. Watching you shake that ass at me, rubbing against me when I help you unlock your door. I'm horny as hell and besides—it's not like you've never done it before."

Turner went totally rigid, hardly even breathing. "How ... "

A guess, but Xander was very good at making those kinds of guesses. He continued massaging the back of Turner's neck, the other rubbing Turner's hand against his cock. "In school, wasn't it?" It always was. "After gym practice and you just _had_ to taste somebody. See what a real man was, instead of a puny little cunt like you."

Turner made a whimpering noise.

"You loved it, too, didn't you? Bitches always do. This is your fault, little girl. Feel how hard I am, come on, rub your hand a little. That's right. That's all because of you, and you promised. You said you'd help me—said you _wanted_ to help me."

Licking his lips, Turner made a valient effort in yanking his eyes back up to Xander's face. "I'm not a—"

"Want to see how hard it is?" Xander interrupted. "Come here, come up real close." It took some tugging and some more coaxing, but the drug kept him much less resistant that he should've been and within a minute, Turner was kneeling between Xander's spread knees. Undoing the zipper, Xander pulled his cock free. "Look at it, baby. You did that. Licking those pretty lips of yours, you were _teasing_ me."

"No, I—" He was so close that his breath puffed against Xander's cock. When Xander moaned, just a little, making it sound pained, Turner flicked a look up at him. "I'm not a cocksucker."

"Oh, yeah, you are. You're a cocksucker, a queer little pussy. Look at your own cock. You're getting off on this, you bitch. Least you can do is help me since you're such a fag. A _cocksucker_. Come on, just a lick. Come on."

Turner glanced down at his own tented trousers like he'd didn't realize that he'd been hard ever since Xander first appeared—he may not have, consciously. He swayed a little on his knees as he stared, shocked. "I—"

"You're hard, you fucking pussy, and you _promised_ me."

Jerking his head up at the much harsher tone in Xander's voice, he bumped into Xander's cock, dragging it along his lips. Immediately, Turner jerked back as if he'd been scalded—but he licked his lips, eyes now focused on the bobbing erection in front of him. Xander said nothing, letting natural inclination mix with the drug and the words he'd been coaxing Turner with do what they were supposed to.

Slowly, so slowly, Turner leaned forward and tentatively licked at Xander's shaft. Then again. He shuffled forward, hands resting on Xander's thighs as he tilted his head and licked from base to tip. There was a wondering quality to his explorations—the head, now, lapping at the precome that pooled there—and absolutely no skill. That was all right, though. Xander could teach him that, later.

When his cock was completely covered in saliva, every inch now tasted by Turner's increasingly eager mouth, Xander let himself give a breathy moan. "Good girl," he praised. "Doesn't that feel better? No more lying. You're a cocksucker, baby, you love the taste of it. That's right, all in your mouth. Just the head, now, you're too stupid to know how to deep throat, but that's okay. I'll teach you. That's it, girl, suck me off nice now."

The words flowed over Turner, who closed his eyes as he began to bob up and down on Xander's cock. He couldn't take much, but that wasn't what this was about. Sometimes coaxing, sometimes commanding, Xander coached Turner into taking a little more. "You love it. I knew you were nothing but a fucking fag. But that's okay, baby, because now you're _my_ fag. I'll make sure you have all the cock you need—yeah, that's right. A little more now, you're being such a good cocksucker for me. Good little bitch ..."

Finally close, Xander abruptly pushed Turner off his cock. Turner's eyes were completely glazed over, his mouth hanging slack as if it couldn't wait to be filled again. It was a pretty sight, especially the way his eyes _re_ focused the minute Xander began fisting his own wet prick. Turner's gaze sharpened, following the quick hand motions until his head was bobbing along with the same rhythm.

Panting now, Xander let his legs spread wider, slumping down just a little bit. "You loved that, you fucking whore. And now I'm going to give you your reward. Lean forward!" The sharp command produced instant results, Turner staring fixedly at the cock right before his nose. Oh, god, Turner was so _perfect_. "Good girl," was all Xander could say before he was coming, covering Turner's face with translucent release.

Turner moaned as he was used this way, his own hips working against the empty air. When a bit of come dripped into his mouth, he went totally rigid, face twisting in agonized pleasure.

Xander blinked. The boy had _come_ , just from being come _on_! That rarely happened at all, and usually only when a boy was firmly brought to heel and able to come on command. That Turner could do that _now_...

Groaning, Xander leaned forward and scooped up some of the dripping ejaculate, shoving his finger into Turner's mouth. The boy immediately started suck. "Knew you were a cocksucker," he murmured. "A queer-ass bitch who needs a real man to take care of her. That's okay, though, cause I'll take care of you." Knowing he'd timed it exactly—practice did make perfect—Xander stroked Turner's hair as he finger-fed him the rest of Xander's come. "You're such a good girl for me. Say thank you, now."

Dazed eyes met his. "Than ... ?"

"For showing you what a pretty little cocksucker you are. Now thank me."

"Th-thank you," Turner obediently mumbled."

"Good girl. That's my bitch. I want you to sleep now, all right? That's it, baby, good girl. Close your eyes and sleep for me... so good ..."

When Turner crumpled, more passed out than asleep, Xander chuckled. He'd have Turner be a desperate little cock-slut before the month was out, and it'd be the boy himself who did most of it. Xander was just providing the encouragement.

Tucking himself back into his pants for the moment, Xander carried Turner back into his own apartment. He'd think it was a dream, or a nightmare, and Xander was content to let him do so—for a few days. He had needs, after all. But as first steps went, this one was a giant's leap.

"Night, cocksucker," Xander whispered, kissing come-shiny lips.


End file.
